The behavior of men and elk…

Posted on October 3, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Out here on these acres of ranch land there are things I know are there and places I roam everyday. I know there are cattle somewhere between the east and west pastures, if the sneaky animals haven’t found a hole in the fence. I know that if I let the pug out too early in the morning without a bowl of food he will high tail it off down the red road to my parent’s garage where his girlfriend lives with one of those automatic dog feeders.

I know how to catch a horse and where the creek winds. I know where my favorite birch tree lives….and my favorite oak. I know there is a pair of geese that live in the dam in front of where we will put our new house. I know that they mate for life. When it comes to chokecherry picking, I know where to look. The same goes with plums, raspberries, tiger lilies and Christmas trees. I know who rides what saddle and to expect my pops, if he’s home on the weekend, down in the horse pens as soon as the light and weather will allow.

These things I know, these places I have shown you. I have taken you picking those berries, cutting that Christmas tree, down through that winding creek. I have introduced you to my favorite tree and shown you a photo of those geese. I have complained about the pug. These are things I can speak to, I can describe adequately and take you along through words and photos and feelings.

But on Friday evening as I saddled my horse and followed husband out of the barnyard and down the road to meet pops, I realized I haven’t successfully explained or portrayed to you my role out here on these rolling, rugged acres among the men of the Veeder Ranch. Especially during a season that calls to their inner mountain men, that keeps their eyes wide open, their ears perked, their binoculars close to their sides and rifles tuned.

Yes, it’s nearing hunting season, and if I was ever a tag along, a nod and a “uh, huh” or “yeah, sure,” in their lives during the rest of the year as they explained to me where the fence was down and where the cattle were out, how to manage the water tank situation, how not to run over the biggest rock in the yard with the lawn mower, or where to stand and how to wave my hands when helping one of them back a pickup up to a trailer, ’tis truly the month for observation now, for quiet cheering, for watching these two men finally get a chance to play, to breathe, to flex their man muscles after a year filled with work and stresses.

So on Friday that’s what they did, we saddled up our horses and went scouting for elk–the elk that have been roaming in and out of our lives mysteriously all year, the elk that were behind our little brown house, across our road, by the cattle guard between the two places and then magically appear by my parents’ mailbox.

Because pops has his license this year, a kind of “once in a lifetime” chance at this majestic creature who he can hear bugling in his pastures in the evenings. But here’s the thing that I have learned about pops in my years of sitting next to him in the pickup as he leans his head out the window, his binoculars to his face…as much as the man is looking forward to the season and to the prospect of elk meat in his fridge for the winter, what means more to him is the observation of this creature. He thrives on learning about their patterns of movement, where they water, where they bed down for the night, where they can be expected…or how they can be so unexpected.

And he wants to share in the experience, tell his story, see if he can show you the same thing. Which is precisely what we were doing on Friday as pops lead the way to the west pasture, talking quietly about how he came right up on these elk on Tuesday evening and got to watch them graze and hear them bugle from nearly 250 yards away. It made his month, that encounter, and he intended to find them again.

To watch.

To learn.

To listen.

And so I followed as the two men lead me down through the creek bottoms, up a rocky pass across a grassy pasture and through a draw to the top of the hill where pops expected he might find the herd again. I followed as they whispered about guns and bows and where husband shot his whitetail deer a few seasons back. I watched them as they watched the hills, pulled binoculars to their faces, stopped short at the cracking of a tree branch or rustle of the leaves. They pointed things out to one another or stopped in a draw to whisper a few stories, pointers, to say what they expect or hope to see.

It as inspiring really as I moseyed behind, snapping photos and breathing in the fall air. These two men–one who raised me, one who I grew up with–have taught me things I may have never learned without them. Here they were, friends. Best friends out here under the sun that was setting fast and turning golden trees to dark shadows…best friends on an age-old mission, a ritual.

As we pushed our horses up to the top of the butte and dismounted, I watched as the two of them snuck to the edge of the hill, dark silhouettes of men out in an element that was made for them, silent and peering out into the big oak draws below.

My heart pumped hard as husband spun around with that expression I know means business and the two men nearly jogged back to the horses to get a closer look…they had heard the bulging and we were going to get a closer look.

Now here I would like to explain to you what that was like, sitting at the top of that hill with a herd of elk grazing and moving along the trees below us. I want to tell you what these men were saying and describe how the breeze was heavy, the light was low, how I was holding my breath nearly the entire time as the horses grazed behind us, listening for that unmistakable, mysterious bugle. I would have loved for you to be there, really, to learn a little about the behavior of elk in the men’s sporadic and enthused but quiet conversation about what they were seeing.

I could have sat there forever like that surrounded by good things, with the moon above and the grass under my body. I could have listened to these men in their best moments, watched these unsuspecting animals so far away in their habitat, doing what they do to survive out here.

I could have listened to those coyotes howl all night and fallen asleep under the stars at the feet of my horse.

That’s how I felt.

This is what we saw…

And these are the sounds. They are something you may have never heard before so I wanted to share so badly. It’s nothing thrilling, no fast cars or complicated music, no political banter or celebrity gossip that you might typically find on an internet video. No. This is just the sound of quiet, of calm, of good men in awe of nature, an elk bugling, coyotes howling and a woman listening…watching…observing the world through their eyes…

The sights and sounds of elk scouting with the men of the Veeder Ranch:

The generations…

Posted on August 24, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

So we have been in the middle of making house plans this summer and have faced the big decisions about where we should put it, what kind of view we want from our front porch, who is going to build it, who will dig the basement, what is our budget for windows, how many bedrooms, how many bathrooms, what will our light fixtures look like, what style of shingles and what kind of toilet for crying out loud.

I have been through a major remodel in my short (five years to the month) marriage, which I left behind me in the dust last December when we sold the damn thing. I know about the process. I know what it takes and am excited about our final decision to have a new home built over the hill and keep this little house renovated and in tact for family on the home place.

I know, I know. Those of you who have been following my little journey here at the ranch will recall that I changed my mind about this a few times.

Approximately sixty-seven I would guess. It was a big decision, you know, the spot we pick to spend the rest of our lives.

But in the end, when the surveyors were here to stake it out, we were back at the beginning, back to the place where this little house originally stood, back to the coulee where my grandfather built it, and back to a home under my childhood stomping grounds, the big hill we call “Pots and Pans.”

They are building the road today…and you know the old saying “here goes nothing…”?

Well, forget that. Here goes everything.

The original Veeder Homestead where my great grandpa Eddy Veeder was raised

Everything my great grandparents worked to build, everything my grandfather and father and aunt and uncle worked to keep, everything I grew to love in the buttes and the clover and the coulees and the big blue sky is going to surround us, get under our fingernails, brush against our skin, greet us in the morning and kiss us goodnight…for as long as we chose to be here.

Which in my mind is as long as I live.

I can’t help but feel overwhelmingly blessed at the thought of it all. And then a bit guilty, a bit ridiculous.

Because what have I done to deserve to be here? What have I done but be born to a family who taught me things about the land and horses and cattle and how to plant a garden, a family who didn’t worry about getting my jeans dirty falling in the creek, or my boots scuffed from kicking rocks on the scoria road? What have I done but listen, learn and want to be like them?

What did I do but ask to plant my life here only to find my wishes so graciously granted? Because someone should be here, someone should help tend to the fences and fix up the old barn.

The old barn my great grandfather Edgar Andrew Veeder built with his sons on this very place.

Can you see him here? A shadow in the doorframe of his homestead shack around the year 1915.

Eddy Veeder Homestead Shack-1915

His home that stood outside of the trees where the horses hide from the flies below our house. It was here he settled when he left his parents’ homestead to start out on his own at age 21. It was here he brought his new bride, Cornelia, after they wed on September 4th, 1917 in the small town of Schafer, ND. It was here he kissed her goodbye when he was called to serve in the Army during World War I. After his discharge in 1919, it was here, on this acreage where I ride and walk and kick up dust every day, that he purchased a threshing machine, more acreage from his brother, and worked cattle and the fields as he and his wife welcomed five children, the youngest, my grandfather, my father’s father.

Edgar and Cornelia Harrison-1917

It was here where my great grandfather watched as his wife, his woman, slipped away from this world at only 36 years old–a heart failed and five young children left behind to be cared for by a man who I hear made the world’s best biscuits.

And it was here, right below this house where I cook dinner each night, that Cornelia’s yellow roses still bloom in the spring.

Cornelia's Roses

I never knew him, my great grandfather Eddy. I couldn’t have. Time did not allow him to hold me in his arms, a wrinkly bundle of flesh and bone who would grow into a woman who would think of him often, discover his wife’s roses, and be grateful every day for the gift of this land, for his hard work, for the red barn and my grandfather.

My grandfather who chose to stay here too, through droughts, and too much rain and seven feet of snow. My grandfather who married a good woman who climbed on the back of a horse with the same grace and humility that she used to raise exceptional children.

Grandpa Pete and Grandma Edith Veeder

Children who loved this land, who cherished it more than the money it may or may not reap, who understood that it must stay here, no matter the cost, for their children to enjoy.

So what did I do but love this land too? What have I sacrificed but the conveniences of a grocery store and a shopping mall nearby? Why would I want more than this, besides my cousins and sisters and aunts and uncles as neighbors living here on this land where we all grew up?

My cousins and I with my Grandma Edie outside the house I live in

And so, as the first move of progress on the house we will have built comes creeping up the pink road, making a path to our new home, I am humbled by those people who share my name and my blood, who carved a few roads of their own out here, who put up their own walls, who grew their own flowers and wheat and corn and babies and cattle out here where I’ve always felt I belonged.

Where I will remain for as long as I am able.

And the colors of the carpets, the make of the siding, the size of the basement loom a little less significantly in my mind today as I am grateful…

Me with my Grandpa Pete in his house, this house, in 1985

To be alive…

Posted on July 26, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

So here I am in Red Lodge, MT getting ready to climb into husband’s new pickup with him and my built-in-best friend and take the trek with a camper up Beartooth Pass and on into Yellowstone Park for our family reunion last week.

I was excited to set my eyes on the magnificent views of this intensely steep, stunning, rustic and dangerous highway, so although I may come across as graceful while captured in the air, I will tell you I stayed true to form and landed awkwardly on the ground only to limp my way across the parking lot as husband shook his head and told me to get in the pickup already, geesh.

So we got on with it, happy we finally made it this far after spending fourteen hours on what was scheduled to be a six hour route.

But before we go much further I have to say that the open road, big sky, crisp air, home in my rearview mirror, family next to me and more waiting ahead made me more grateful than ever to be alive.

That and the fact that sometimes in the middle of your grand plans interrupted by flat tires and small deer that fly out of the ditch to dent your new ride, life hands you a deep breath, a close call, a reality check to make you say a silent prayer to whatever you believe in for perfect timing, that damn flat tire and another day to live in this magnificent world.

Because as we climbed up the pass that day, our eyes focused on the snow capped mountains and the cold blue lakes pooled at their feet…

as we stopped to pick up an ambitious young man who was attempting to roller-ski up the pass and talked to him about his life full of adventure and challenge, as we counted yellow wildflowers and inched closer to the peak, our thoughts were with the man we found laying on the interstate the night before.

The man who, just moments before we found him, was celebrating a beautiful summer evening on the back of his motorcycle. A man who appeared before us a pile of broken flesh, bone and steel alongside the road as the sun sunk down over the horizon– a perfectly uneventful, every day drive, stopped short by an unexpected twist of fate and timing.

We could have been miles ahead of him, long gone and safe in our campsite by the time the man’s motorcycle made contact with the deer in his path, violently sending his body hurling toward the cool, rough pavement on the shoulder of the interstate.

We could have missed the entire thing and not thought twice as we made our way through winding highways, forest, flowers and mountain streams calling to us quietly.

Or we could have been a moment too soon, laughing as we told stories of good times spent together. We could have glanced over at one another just long enough to miss the headlight blinking in the middle of the interstate, to miss husband’s chance to slow his pickup down enough to maneuver through the lifeless deer, the dented bike and the broken man.

We could have been telling a different story entirely.

But no. We are telling this one. The one of our pickup parked safely along the road, the 911 call, the run to the nearest mile-marker, a cloth held to the man’s wounded head while he sucked in the Montana air and recounted his birthday. The one where kind-hearted and capable travelers stopping to help work through it, to direct traffic, to talk to him and tell him everything was going to be ok.

The one where the man was broken but alive.

The one where we were shaken but alright.

The one where we moved on to stand at the brink of a waterfall,

to sing around a campfire and climb a mountain,

to feel the steam of a geyser on our hot faces, the cool-down of the star-lit night and a prayer for a stranger on our lips.

We awoke the next morning to a stream bubbling by our campsite, little man laughing next to us and the mountains reaching toward a crisp, clear sky.

I couldn’t help but notice my senses were heightened, my heart more present, my body positioned closer to the family beside me.

And so we went into the mountains this way, all of us feeling more alive and grateful.

We laughed louder.

Embraced longer.

Climbed higher.

Looked closer.

Saw more clearly

Reached a bit further.

Took more time

Held our breath and found more patience to exist in an another day…

because we were reminded it is nothing but a gift.

Thank you family for bringing us all together here, for letting me hold your babies, for climbing that mountain with me, for cooking me a s’more and some chicken, for making sure we were all together as Old Faithful was erupting…

and holding on tight as I held on tight too.

Thank you for existing, in this masterpiece with me.

This is my dad

Posted on June 20, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

This is my dad.

You may have met him here before in various circumstances. I talk about him a lot, you know, cause I’m his side kick. I guess I always have been. He’s been the harmonica to my guitar, the harmony to my solo, the encouragement behind the uncertainty, the swat on my horse’s rump when is time to get going and pretty much the one person in this world who understands what it’s like to have a nose that seems to keep growing, despite the fact that neither one of us has successfully pulled off a lie.

We share some of the same qualities, my pops and I. I think it drives my family crazy. I mean the big nose and curly hair are a few of the obvious, but the lame jokes and over enthusiasm for the little things (like a field of wildflowers, deliciously ripe tomatoes, a perfectly placed breeze and a song that warrants discussion and repeat plays) are sometimes annoyingly perky and overly positive for members of the Veeder clan who have heard enough already and really don’t care for tomatoes, thanks very much.

We have a tendency to go on and on.

Anyway, yes, pops and I are cut from the same cloth, that’s for sure. But there is one important quality I didn’t inherit from him, or if I did, it’s hidden somewhere down deep and I’m waiting for it to come forth and show itself.

Pops is cool.

Here he is riding a bronc with a broken arm. Seriously. See the cast?

Yup, he’s cool like that.

I mean, the man spent most of his life on the back of horses he worked to get to stop bucking only to willingly get on the back of broncs he hoped would buck like hell.

And bulls. I think he might have done the same with bulls.

Yup. Cool.

Cool like the lead singer of a traveling band who drove around the countryside playing dances and events in this really sweet bus.

In high school.

Give me a break.

I mean, the guy’s got stories, and sometimes, when his brother’s in town or his best bud comes down for coffee or a beer, I get to hear them. I just stay quiet and listen, laugh and can’t believe it.

I can’t believe this man who has been singing Neil Young songs for swaying audiences since he was fifteen years old understood the importance of teaching those songs to his daughters, giving them a guitar of their own and letting them tag along if they wanted to.

I always wanted to.

Come to think of it, I can’t believe a man who’s been thrown from the backs of countless horses gets all up in arms, pissed actually, when one of his own hits the dirt in the same fashion. Shit happens, yes. But he can’t stand it.

Which brings me to the daughters thing. He has three. Yup. He was pops to three little girls with grass stained knees who somewhere along the line became three grown women.

And he has found himself the only man of the house for the last 28 years.

The only man.

I have always wondered about this, wondered what the good Lord was thinking granting a man like this, a man who could teach a son a few things about being a cowboy, hunter, fisherman, tractor driver and all things some little boys are made of, three wild-haired daughters with wills like the wind.

I always wondered if a son would have made his life easier, more fulfilling, although I never wondered if he wished for one. He never made us feel that way. He just took us along.

And riding shotgun in the pickup or sitting beside him as he played his guitar I worked to learn as much as possible from him about ranching and cattle and music and what it means to truly love a place and love your family beyond measure.

I continue to learn from him every day.

It took me a while to understand this, but as we celebrated Father’s Day yesterday and pops’ three daughters were scattered across the prairie raising a baby, visiting a boyfriend and rolling in late with a pickup full of kayaks and chicken for dinner, it became very clear to me the type of man it takes to raise daughters.

As I looked at the lines on my pop’s face I realized that his whiskey voice, silver hair and disjointed nose may have emerged during his time on the back of bulls, driving too fast or singing in bar bands–but that was just practice, a workout, training so he could build himself some muscles.

Muscles to lift his girls up on the back of horses, into pickups, and off the ground when a fall broke their bones or a boy broke their heart–muscles to lift bags and beds and boxes into their cars…

…and guts to watch them kick up dust on the road as they drove up on over the horizon and out on their own.

Guts to walk them down the aisle only to leave the light on, just in case they ever need to come home…

Because it’s men whose heart and mind have always been open to adventure, surprise, opportunity and wild rides; men with gentle hands and expectations who stay up late at night without complaint waiting for the car to pull into the drive, no matter the hour; men with enough hair to hold a colorful array of barretts and enough security in their manhood to show up to work with remnants of pink nail-polish on their fingernails; it’s only the strongest men, only the manliest men, the most composed, most tender- hearted, most exceptional men…

…the coolest men who are blessed and charged with making sure little girls understand that they have muscles of their own.

Happy Father’s Day Pops. Thanks to you I get stronger every day.

My built-in-best-friend

Posted on June 10, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

My little sister is home for the summer and things have sure brightened up around here.

I mean just look at her. Look at those dimples. Look at that smile. Look at those kissable cheeks…

..doesn’t she just literally scream, “aw well, shit happens, life goes on…let’s go have a beer.”

Awwww. So cute. I love my little sister and having her around here for a few months is like having a built-in-best-friend who I can call at anytime to come and hang out, help me move heavy stuff, join us for a BBQ, or a quick trip to the lake and not have to worry about judgement when she shows up and there is a cat sitting on my kitchen table (how did that get there?) or when we finally make it to the lake with the boat and, you know, starts smoking and quits working while we watch from the shore in our swimming suits as husband floats away.

No big deal, says little sister.

Shit happens.

And then she makes sure to record her big sister in a heroic moment of plunging into the bone chilling early June lake water to pull her man back to shore (and when I say bone chilling, I mean so cold I couldn’t breathe for a good ten minutes. So cold I think my skin shrunk. So cold I think my voice changed permanently. So cold the damages are irreparable). Anyway, yes, little sister made sure to snap a few photos and laugh her pretty little head off as the warm sun shone on her and her stubby little feet stayed dry.

I....

cant...

breathe.

I think I may have also heard her say something like “It’s times like these I’m glad I’m not married…this is the type of wifely duty I try to avoid.”

Ah, little sister, you might as well get married in that snarky hat. I hate to break it to you, but I think that phrase was coined for the union.

Anyway, I love having her out here, because I love her of course, but also because it reminds me of the old days.

The days when she stood three foot four, had a permanent crusted tear on her cheek, bandaids up and down her arms from picking at mosquito bites and patches on her little overalls.

I die.

Because she reminds me of the days when I was still learning to control my hair along with my temper and a little sister with patches on her jeans who wanted to go everywhere I went.

Including all of my secret spots.

Secret spots that weren’t so secret once I got there, having written and performed my latest Grammy Award winning song at the top of my lungs along the way, only to find that little sister was peeking her head out from behind a big oak tree four feet behind me.

Which prompted me to work on my diva attitude (you need one of those if you’re going to win a Grammy) and scream at her to go home, go away, scram, get out of here, you’re so annoying, quit following me, go play inside, etc….

But little sister has always been smarter than me. She would turn around and walk slowly toward the house, waiting for me to continue my Disney Princess-esque concert to the trees and birds and then quickly spin around and conduct her sneaking ritual, tiptoeing from tree to tree all over again until I broke down and let her stay.

I always broke down and let her stay.

In fact, by the time our childhood came to a close, little sister had secured a contract for me to build her her a matching fort across the creek, complete with an old lawn furniture chair cushion and a tin-can telephone so we could stay in touch.

What what?

Ah hell, little sister has always been savvy like that.

who could say no to this?

Because the thing is, little sister is my little sister by five years and my big sister’s little sister by eleven. That’s a lot of time between siblings. And out here where her nearest friend lived a mile and a half up hill on a gravel road, you can’t blame the little tyke for seeking company in her weird, (cool?) big sister. I mean, she had strong little legs, but that was quite the trek on her tricycle.

And at the end of the day, I was always glad she wanted a friend in me–always glad she hung on even when I left her to fend for herself after our bottle calf, Pooper, escaped from his pen, and thinking little sister was his mother, proceeded to head butt, push, lick and and chase the three foot five, band-aid clad, curly headed girl down the gravel road to our house as her hero and protector sprinted as fast as her eleven-year old legs could take her to the safety of the house.

Yup, that's us with Pooper...

But little sister could always hold her own, which came in handy when she had to deflect the lies I told her about how elves live under the big mushrooms that grow out of cow poop and she really should spend the rest of the afternoon flipping them over and trying to catch a few. Little sister’s wit and limited patience for tasks without rewards saved her on that one and I got my big sister butt chewed when, after about three mushroom overturns, she discovered more bugs than elves.

Yes, I could never pull one over on her or convince her to do anything she didn’t want to do, because what she wanted for the longest time was to hang out with me. And then the sun continued rising and setting and pretty soon we did what all little girls do eventually…we grew up.

And those years between us got in the way. Suddenly tagging along was no longer an option as I moved to town school, got a car and then a boyfriend, who, now come to think of it, would come out to the ranch to visit me and spend the entire afternoon teaching little sister to play chess…

Ahhh, there she went again…

Anyway, that’s the thing I’ve always admired about little sister–she has always known exactly who she is and what she wants. The same way she wooed me into building her a fort, and charmed my boyfriend (who became my husband and one of her best friends) into playing chess with her, to working her ass off for straight As in college while taking time to stand in the crowd to listen to her favorite band, she has always took her life and made the most of it…

smiling the whole way.

So now as she finishes up college and moves on into the real world, I am finding that those years that floated between us, pushing us together when we were both young girls and pulling us apart through adolescence and early adulthood, they just don’t matter anymore.

That little sister who followed me through the trees, listened on the other side of the hall night after night as I practiced my guitar, fought with me until her face turned red, rode with me in my 1983 Ford LTD as I learned to drive in the big town, who shares the same issues with her frizzy, always growing hair and always tells it to me straight, has always been my built-in-best friend.

And now I am beginning to understand what that little dimpled faced girl felt like as she was watching me grow up and wander away from her. With the world at her feet and a beauty and good-humored personality that just blossoms a bit more every day, I want nothing more than to stand in her shadow, to follow her from tree to tree, to sit next to her at the table, to kick over any mushrooms she asks me to and, you know, plop down my lawn furniture in my fort across the creek and convince her, from the other end of our tin-can telephone, to never leave me.

For more sister sentiment, listen to the song I wrote about her here: Alex

She chose us

Posted on May 6, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

I like to imagine my mother before I knew her–before she became a mom for the first time to my big sister and wife to my father. I like to imagine her long straight hair, jeans that hugged her ballerina legs, her high heels clicking along the pavement on her way to a job she was damn good at, her tan skin on elegant arms that opened out wide to the world.

Because it was those open arms that brought me into my world. A world with gravel roads, cattle grazing in the yard, clay buttes, children on horses and neighbors who lived miles a way. A world I am certain this beauty queen who used to twirl and spin in satin dresses on stages never pictured herself in.

I like to imagine her this way, young and in love and willing to sacrifice the life between city streets, the life she was familiar with, for a man in a band with wild, black hair wearing a suit with cowboy boots and looking displaced in that city where they met–ready to bust out at the polyester seams, saddle his horse and ride out on the interstate toward home.

I like to imagine him, my father before he was my father, enamored by this woman with quiet confidence, natural beauty and an aversion to practical shoes. A woman who was like no other woman he had ever met, who was fine on her own raising a beautiful daughter, but might be convinced, if treated with the kindness and respect that she deserved, to go with him.

Go with him to live in this wild space, a space that I imagine has always been under appreciative of a woman so refined and polished and poised. A space that required more practical shoes.

I like to picture that she pulled on her boots and listened to her new husband’s dreams of cattle and horses while she searched for work, taught dance classes in the nearby small town, had two more daughters and raised them in a landscape so far from the sidewalks and movie theaters and restaurants of her youth.

But she never complained. At least I have never heard it. And out here surrounded by snakes and trees and creeks and buttes and big blue sky my mother watched her daughters grow and get their hands dirty and tangle their fuzzy hair in the wind. She cheered them on at small town rodeos, tended to broken arms, made makeshift habitats for pet turtles in her roasting pan, gave advice on cheerleading moves, helped with 4-H projects and bought them pretty shoes, no matter the dirt and mud they insisted on dragging into the house on our boots.

And while she drove one with ballerina aspirations to lessons 75 miles away, sent one to ride horses and sing her songs on stage and scheduled the other for basketball and volleyball camps around the state, I imagine her grabbing little pieces of her heart and spirit and handing them quietly off to her daughters…

Her pointed toes, blue eyes, poise, gentle nature and quiet beauty slipped to her oldest in her mug filled with hot chocolate on her way out the door.

The honesty, determination, quick wit, strength and social graces that exist within my mother flew out of her mouth and attached to her youngest during an argument about boyfriends or clothes or parties with friends.

And to her middle daughter, a daughter who in her younger days was convinced that she had nothing in common with the woman who gave birth to her, she gave a gift of gentle touches, encouragement, belief in wild dreams and understanding of untamed emotions. But most of all her sacrifice, her perseverance, tolerance and acceptance of a world she had to grow to understand and appreciate has been her greatest gift to me…the gift of a home on the landscape I will always belong to.

That, and an affection for impractical shoes.

But for all that she’s given, all of the sacrifices she has made through winters at the ranch that seemed to have lasted years, through snakes and skunks making their way into her home, through thankless jobs, burned tuna casseroles, drought and dust storms, drained bank accounts and children who just won’t listen, my mother has held on to the best parts of herself:

The beauty queen parts, the wine connoisseur, hilarious loon interpreter and graceful selflessness parts. The life of the party, the fashionista, giver of the most thoughtful gifts, Christmas loving, sun seeker, tasteful, best friend in the world parts. The big sister, the caring daughter, the understanding wife parts. The organized and impeccably clean and always prepared (even when 30 miles away from the nearest grocery store) parts.

The parts of her that have always known what is best for her family. Best for her daughters.

So, yes, I like to imagine my mother before I knew her, before she was my mother. I like to imagine her with all of that love to give, all of that joy, all of those dreams and talents with the world at her delicate fingertips.

And then give thanks that she chose this life. Of all of the things and people she could have belonged to, all of the places she could have laid her heart down, she chose to lay it here.

She chose us.

And we are the luckiest.

Happy Mother’s Day momma.

Love you as wide as this prairie sky we live under…as wide as your arms reach.

I don’t know if he’ll be a cowboy…

Posted on April 8, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

I don’t know if my nephew, Little Man, will ever be a cowboy, but I know I am already making plans to buy him a pony.

I don’t know if he will ever sing and play guitar on stage under concert lights or around a campfire late at night, but I know I have some songs in me for him.

And I don’t know if he will ever long to climb mountains or race fast cars or jump out of airplanes or ride bucking bulls or find wild adventure in that little heart of his, but I know the world is waiting to see what he can do.

And I don’t know if I will ever have a child of my own, with my toes and ears and eyes, but I know right now his eyes see me and I will be watching him always.

No, I don’t know what the world has in store for those chubby cheeks, tiny feet and wide, drooly smile, but I am certain of some things:

I am certain his hands won’t always be this small, reaching out to tug my hair and discover his world—a world that won’t always be this new…

and I know I will always be there to hold them.

Oh, and I am sure he won’t always fall asleep in my arms,

but I know my arms will always be open.

And it is most definate that he won’t forever fit naked in my kitchen sink, trying to capture the water that streams out of the faucet…

and I know I will always be amazed at how much he’s grown.

Play like a man.

Posted on March 25, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Husband folds my underwear in perfectly neat little squares. Husband cooks me bacon on Sunday morning while I wait impatiently in the adjoining room because he knows that I cannot be trusted alone with bacon. Husband ventures out in the cold spring air to push the snow away from the house.

Husband makes me drink Theraflu when I have a cold, even though it makes me gag and whine the entire duration of the illness. Husband unclogs my hair-ball from the shower drain and has never said a word about it really.

Husband reminds me to put the lid on the toilet when I’m done because he is genuinely concerned there is a possibility I will drop something, like my toothbrush or a bath towel in there…

Husband’s most usually right.

Husband doesn’t get mad when I forget to check the pockets of his jeans before I send them through the washer and dryer…along with his pocketknife, dollar bills, lists, pens, wrenches and other super important work things I didn’t notice.

Husband thinks I look pathetic in the morning with my head buried under the pillows and no matter how much I tell him he NEEDS to wake me up when he leaves for work at 5:30 am he claims he just can’t do it. I’m too pathetic and he’s too sweet so he puts his socks on in the dark and leaves me a cup of coffee in the pot for when I actually do rise (not quite shining).

Husband fixes drippy faucets…by ripping the entire shower apart and putting it back together with beautiful new tile.

Husband lets the cats sit on the desk to look out the window at the birds…breaking every rule he has about cats.

Husband folds my underwear in neat little squares…did I mention this already?

Did I mention husband needs a break?

Yes. Husband needs a break.

Not just any break. A real break. A break complete with a big pickup hitched up to a horse trailer pulling big boy toys off into the wild blue yonder as the speakers howl out Johnny Cash and his little brother hits the gas and hands him a big bag of Cheetos and a candy bar and promises him a glass or two of whiskey on the rocks when they get to that yonder he’s been talking about for weeks.

And so it was yesterday evening as I pulled into the drive and witnessed the Redneck Extravaganza that appeared as two grown men morphed into excited and giddy young boys pushing and craning and squeezing two fancy snowmobiles into our horsetrailer. A horsetrailer that has hauled livestock and horses and home renovation supplies and all of our earthly possessions all over the country and still, no matter what, continues to boast a nice, unmovable layer of poop residue on the floor.

I will tell you, I had to take photos, because this piece of ranch equipment wasn’t meant to haul anything this shiny. Nothing this expensive.

I also had to take photos in case this was the last time I ever saw husband again–with so many reasons for him to never return home and so many ways he could be lethally injured riding this machine as fast as it can go up and down mountains without a voice of reason nearby to tell him to watch out for: avalanches, huge hidden rocks, man-eating raptors, grizzly bears, fences that could decapitate him, mountain caves covered in snow that could swallow him up, poisonous berries, aliens, and most dangerous of all, himself.

No. There would be nobody there to save him from the reckless teenager I know exists in that man-sized body of his–the one who used to drive 115 miles per hour down country roads in his Thunderbird during a blizzard to see a girl he might have liked a little, the kid who has been known to climb to the top of the highest cliff and do a backflip on his way down to the un-navigated water below, the boy who used to ride all over the badlands on the back of his three-wheeler, jumping cliffs and climbing buttes and more than occasionally landing on, crushing and dislocating countless bones along the way, the kid who…oh forget it…I can’t talk about this anymore…I need to take a break to check our insurance policy…

O.K. Anyway, husband has been working really hard these last few months. And although it doesn’t look like it at the ranch, Western North Dakota is a happening place right now due to the booming oil industry and husband works right in the thick of it. And he’s really good at his job.

So good and dedicated that lately he’s been working nearly 12 hour days only to come home to a wife who has an issue with a drippy faucet, burned the Hamburger Helper to his favorite pan, forgot that we don’t have a garbage disposal and left the lights on in his pickup, draining the battery while galavanting around the ranch…again.

Sssooorrryyyaaa...

Yes, with a wife like this it’s a good thing God granted men the unfaltering ability to play. Like really play. Have you ever noticed this about the species? When men get together they DO things. They hunt. They fish. They play basketball, cards or football. They ride things like 4-wheelers, motorcycles, snowmobiles or boats around. They ski or snowboard or grab a hockey puck and stick and practice their slap-shot. And if they can’t do these things in real life, they do it in the form of video games, watch other guys do it on TV or talk about all the times they have done the above activities together…and who got hurt along the way.

I admire this about men. I admire the play. I admire how they can just let it all go, the faucet, the clogged drain, the one-eyed pug that cost him a fortune, and go to a place to let loose in friendship and brotherhood and good old fashioned fun. And they don’t make excuses. They don’t justify. They don’t prioritize or time themselves or feel guilty about it. They just play.

So anyway, this weekend it’s just me, the cats, the lab and the one-eyed pug in a cone holding down the fort while husband is out inventing new ways to hurt himself and mom and pops are headed to visit my grandparents in Arizona.

The definition of pathetic...

And I don’t mind, as long as there are no more blizzards, power outages, porcupine encounters, coyote incidents or alien invasions while the troops are gone everything will be fine.

Anyway, I have a list a mile long that I have been meaning to get to that requires me to get up at the crack of dawn to check pockets, fold my underwear, unclog the sink, take out the garbage, caulk the newly tiled shower, close the lid on the toilet seat and spend some time with bacon…

Bacon+Me=lack of self control, guilty, fat-laden, salty, happiness

But when I’m finished not doing all of the above (except, of course, the bacon part…) I think I might take husband’s lead and start on the other list–you know, the one that requires me to paint my toenails, watch movies that feature a man named Matthew McConaughey, play my guitar and sing really loud, venture into town to listen to other people do the same thing while kicking back a cocktail, eat cereal and popcorn for supper, catch up on all of my Glamour and People magazines, practice my sweet dance moves without scrutiny from onlookers and critics, eat cereal and popcorn for lunch, watch movies that feature a woman named Julia Roberts, tie up the phone-line chatting up my girlfriends, let the pug and the cats sleep in my bed, avoid the laundry at all costs…

…and not feel the least big guilty about it.

I hope you will all make like a man and do the same…

or at least your version of it…

…and for the love of Martha, watch out for avalanches.

Mother Nature. It’s a woman thing…

Posted on March 23, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Good morning from the land of indecision. And by that I am referring to the weather.

And me. But we’ll get to that later.

Ok, so remember when we talked about that spring thing and the melting and the running water and the removal of the wool caps and scarves and my fantasy about wearing cut-off pants and running through the sprinkler.

Well, that’s all shot to shit now and after the last few days, I am firmly convinced that nature is a woman.

A moody one.

Out my kitchen window yesterday...you're supposed to be able to see the red barn...I can't.

Because just as she gets nice and comfortable with a bit of sunshine and blue skies, raising all of our hopes up of sun kissed skin and BBQs, she laughs like an evil queen in a Disney movie and then throws some more snow and wind and fog and freezing ice in our faces…only to come back and apologize with something like a rainbow or 70 degree weather.

Ah well, like a rocky relationship, we’re all used to it by now.

And for those you who think an all out school cancelled, no travel advised, wind whipping snow pellets in your eyeballs, no Schwanns man for the rest of your life and zero visibility day is unheard of after spring has been declared, I’ll tell you, you haven’t met Mother Nature in North Dakota. In March.

No birds today...

Yes, Mother Nature can be a completely unpredictable, annoyingly indecisive bitch sometimes.

And I can relate, because I have had those kind of days. I am a woman too and lately I have been driving myself crazy with a little project I like to refer to as “Mission: the rest of our lives” and I have displayed all of the above qualities and more during this process. So I’d like to take this opportunity to thank Mother Nature for mirroring the conflicted mood I’ve been in by slamming sleet and snow against our windows and blowing a drift across the door and blocking husband and I inside this little house together in the middle of a bathroom remodeling project, forcing us to make some damn decisions already.

Because it worked.

See, after we sold our house in Dickinson at the end of December, husband and I have been discussing and researching and making decisions and canceling plans and going through books and websites and talking out where exactly on the ranch we are going to live for the rest of our lives.

As you know, I have lived here, in the house my grandfather built, since June. And since I moved my shoes and bed and table and books and music and body between these walls almost a year ago, slowly I have found myself coming back into my own again. I have rediscovered this landscape where I grew up and began to throw myself into the things I loved to do as a kid, because I couldn’t help it, I felt 10 again. I picked wildflowers, rode my horses, explored the old barn, walked the coulees, played in the rain and rescued lost kittens.

And I wrote about it, worked through it and relaxed a bit into myself again.

But during this time I have always had it in my head that my existence in this spot, with the window that looks out to the barn and the other that faces the corrals, would be temporary. Our plan was to build a house over the hill and leave this house the way it is, with some updates and an open door to guests.

That was our plan, so we moved forward–kind of. We talked to builders and picked up pamphlets and searched the internet for custom homes and asked questions and never really did set it up and move on with it already.

What I was most excited about was fixing up this house. Putting in some new floors, siding, deck, appliances–the works. I wanted to see it glisten and shine again. But really, what about our house already? What was wrong with us? What was the hold-up on making our forever home?

Forever.

Home.

Forever.

Well, on Sunday we brought home some tiles to fix up the shower in the farm house. Tiling. Not my favorite by the way. And as we were taking a trip out to the shop to get the tools, on the way back husband stopped short of the door and put his hands on his hips. He leaned back. He inspected. He moved around the house making noises like “hmmm…” and “wellll…” and “huh.”

I watched him for a bit, my arms full of tools. Then I asked the inevitable “What?” “What are you doing? We have a mission here.”

He turned to look at me through the foggy air and mist that settled in on the barnyard and over the square brown house before the storm hit and out of husband’s mouth came words that, simply said, seemed to clear that fog and mist and hovering clouds that had existed in my mind as indecision…

“We could stay here. We could stay in this spot. We could make it work.”

I sat down on the deck that is in desperate need of repair and put my head in my hands.

“Yes,” I said.

“Yes,” I whimpered.

“Yes,” I wailed.

“Yes,” I sobbed.

“Yes. I want to stay here.”

And so we took the time that was reserved for tiling that Sunday afternoon and talked it over, made some drawings and gave ourselves some options on how it could work.

And I was happy.

And still am.

And think I always will be here.

At home.

Even with the storm wailing outside and painting this house and barn white.

Even while other people were hunkering down against the storm yesterday and watching bad movies we were inside tiling and tiling and making plans for more work like this.

Even when I can’t get my car out of the snowbank.

And since many of you are snowed in today I think this might be a good time to share with you a little extra reading: My winning essay and answer to the question “Who Inspires You” for the “Inspired Woman” magazine out of Bismarck, ND.

Read it and then tell me why I didn’t listen to myself and figure this whole forever-home thing out months ago when I placed the last period at the end of the story.

It must be a woman thing.

You can see the entire article in the magazine, complete with photos, here: Inspired Woman Magazine

P.S. The decision to stay in the this location doesn’t mean we won’t have space for guests. It just means we will have different space available…

And so a girl changes her mind and I am confident it will work out for the best.

The thaw-out ritual

Posted on March 21, 2011 by Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

It was great day to be alive at the ranch. The sun was shining on the buttes, melting away the snow and revealing the ground, the sweet, muddy, brown ground that is certain to burst with green in the coming months.

Nobody could wait. Not the birds…

not the deer…

not the antelope…

not the snarky coyote…

not the pets…

(Don't worry, I've moved the bird feeder...)

not the people…

Not the pops.

Enough with the cold already.

This is spring fever. And the person who suffers from it more than anything else in the world, man or beast, is my pops.

As soon as the sun hits that ice and snow, warming it up enough to see some water run, to see some ground exposed, he’s out of the house like a caged bird who hasn’t been released since his capture. He doesn’t know what to do with himself he’s so giddy. He gets that list in his head going…all the things that need to be fixed, all the fences to check, all the animals to scope out, all the tinkering to do. He gets that list going and milling around right and good and then lets it all fly out his ears as he climbs to the top of the nearest hill and plops himself down in the warmest, driest spot he can find and just lets the sun shine down on him.

That’s his thaw-out ritual. I have witnessed it year after year, spring after spring. And I have adopted it.

Because it’s a good idea.

Ok, so here’s the other thing about my pops. When it thaws, he forgets.

He forgets that one warm day does not the summer make. He forgets that the 6 feet of snow in the coulees does not melt in a mere two hours of warm sunshine. He forgets that the frolicking about will remain challenging in the slush and slop and ice…at least for a good month or so.

He frolics anyway, despite the cost and the muddy, wet clothes that result. And last week I was reminded of this as I pulled into the yard on the first sunny, blue sky, warm melty day we’ve had in months. There he stood, my pops, in his cap and overalls and muck boots, hammering on the tractor, shuffling around the shop. I parked my car in the driveway and quickly changed into my ranch clothes and walked out to see what he was up to.

Pops emerged from the dark of the garage, hand shielding his eyes from the sunshine.

“Hey. Whatcha doing?”

“Oh, had to get out here. It’s such a nice day. Isn’t it gorgeous. Feels like 60 degrees…water’s really running. Got that part I needed for the tractor, but it looks like I need another one…won’t get that fixed today. Oh well…want to come with me to check the horses?”

“Sure. We walkin?”

“No, we’ll take the 4-wheeler.”

“Really? You think it will make it?”

“Oh, I think I can maneuver it around the hills…we can make it…it’s a beautiful day. Beautiful. We’ll bring them some grain. Hop on.”

Here is where I will explain that I have been known to do exactly what my father says, without question, since the beginning of time. Obedience. I had it. And even though I have a few vague memories of the pops’ great ideas turning into arms and leg flailing, bone crushing, all out wrecks complete with run-away horses, polyester shirts welded to arms, a barbed wire fence to the forehead and one finger smashed by a 2,000 pound bull in the past, it turns out those fuzzy recollections have no power over my two relentless qualities: obedience and loyalty.

I hopped on.

And wondered how this was going to go, remembering my recent trip to the horses in my snowshoes where I sunk into 10 foot drifts and drug my ass home with blood gushing out my nose from the cold and trauma of the exertion. Now I realize the temperature was unbearably cold then and the snow was fluffier and much easier to fall through, but it hadn’t melted that much had it?

Ah, it didn’t matter anyway because Pops was determined. He was not worried. He took his 4-wheeler and me and my doubts along the gravely mucky road and then turned, nice and easy off the path and up the melty drift that has been growing and growing all winter long at the entrance of the farmstead.

I closed my eyes tight, waiting to feel the pull of gravity that was sure to send us plummeting through the 12 feet of snow and rocks and slushy water toward the earth that I was sure still existed under all of that stuff.

Then I opened them, because that didn’t happen. Nope. Not at all. With pops at the helm whistling a familiar tune, we put-putted our way right on over the drift like we made this daring trip every day and headed for dry ground. We continued this way, dodging the white patches of snow, taking the long way around hills and trees to keep the machine on snow-free ground.

The warm air whipped through the hairs that had escaped from my beanie. My pale cheeks soaked up the sunshine. My lungs shouted “woo hoo” as they remembered what fresh air above 35 degrees felt like.

I released my white knuckled death grip as we approached the gate to the horse pasture.

Ah it was springtime and the living was easy and as pops got off his machine to get the gate I thought of all of things I was going to do under this big sky with its ball of warm heat shining down on me….

plant a garden…lounge with a vodka tonic…clean up all of the things that have magically appeared as the snow disappeared (who put that kayak there?)…wear shorts…avoid washing my windows…

Pops hopped back on and as we continued on our little journey…

…where were we? Oh, yes……avoid the laundry…run through the sprinker…wash the dogs (I think I can smell them from here)…fill up the kiddie pool and attach it to my slip ‘n slide…speaking of slip ‘n slide, remember to NOT fling my body down a clay butte, no matter how much the mud beckons…grill…drink margaritas….find my floaties and head to the lake…eat pineapple..

“Jessie….

Jess..

Jessica!!!”

“Wha…what?”

“You need to get off.”

“Wha…why?”

“We’re stuck.”

And just like that, the green and blue landscape that existed in my head was replaced by reality’s sharp kick in the pants.

A good mile from the house and good half mile to our destination there we sat in the great white north with a 600 pound 4-wheeler buried to its gullets in the heavy, wet, limitless, not so spring-like snow.

Without a shovel.

Now here is where I tell you that I wasn’t surprised despite my momentary, it’s-spring-time-things-are-going-good, distraction. See, this isn’t the first time pops has had this thing stuck. Like really stuck.

See, growing up we didn’t own a 4-wheeler. We had horses. Those were our 4-wheelers. At least that’s what I was told.

But pops splurged in the last few years when his kids (who maybe would have liked a 4-wheeler a little too much) left home.

Ah, sweet freedom.

Freedom to splurge on the only convenience the man has ever had on the place. Really. So you can’t blame him for testing its limits by taking the beast where no machine was meant to go: t0 the tops of buttes, over giant boulders, through fences, up trees and across muddy, ravenous, woody crick beds.

I know ’cause I have had to pull, cut, dig and help lift him out.

But this particular day, as I squinted my eyes against the sunshine reflecting off of the glaring white snow that was holding promise of disappearing, I looked at pops and laughed. And he shrugged. We kicked the tires. We pushed a little. We dug a little. We commented about the shovel.

And then we grabbed the bucket of grain and abandoned our ride to continue the task at hand.